A romance free year: April

Do you have artists you love but can’t listen to? That’s Amy Shark for me. She was our pianist as we sunk into my living room floor. He grabbed my foot instead of kissing me. This sounds weird as I write it here, but trust me, it was precious. We texted her lyrics back and forth for weeks. He called me twice in a row while I was in the shower. I stood, soap drenched and kneeling over my windowsill while talking him off a ledge half a world away.

I told my best friend at the time that it felt like we were in this timeless moment. An ornament that, when it catches the light, encapsulates the whole room. But it wasn’t love. It was butterflies, and cat and mouse games and trading sleep for phone calls we couldn’t end. But it wasn’t love.

I said earlier this year that love doesn’t hurt. I choose to believe that he was a lesson. I’m an addict and I think we all love a good taste of elation. But I have a habit of reopening wounds, of salt pouring, knife digging. So even after he shared how he was happier and healthier when we didn’t communicate, I somehow continued to engage in the block only to immediately unblock routine. This became stalking via Spotify and Venmo of all apps.

I didn’t grow up with a healthy relationship to base my own aspirations on

I share this in the hope that I’m not the first person to hear a new single from an artist, three years post lust like pixie dust and think of texting them. Of telling them you’re moving away. Of imagining them showing up at your door and saying all the right things.

For nearly two years now, I’ve felt a little like a scene pulled out of Freaky Friday with a woman living in New York City. She is originally from Vermont and I’m a New Yorker for lack of a better zip code to call home, living in Vermont. She has a partner that undoubtedly loves her and she recently rapped for him as a V-Day gift.

I didn’t grow up with a healthy relationship to base my own aspirations on. I still feel like I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up in terms of what I want in a partner. If you dream of being an astronaut, it’s very challenging, yes, but there is more or less a checklist to work your way through. But what do I do if I want to be and find a loving, respectful, mature, silly, sweet, sexy, good, and kind love affair?

Everyone seems to say they appear the moment you stop looking. So how does one stop looking? Ultimately, that’s what the entire point of this romance-free year for me is. And while I give the pandemic the applause one would give Donald Trump in a Trader Joe’s. Meaning absolutely none, even if you paid me. Not leaving my house most days makes it easier to not poke my ears up at attractive strangers.

I spent years trying to be the person I thought they wanted me to be

In replacement of lingering eye contact across coffee shops, we can no longer go into, I’ve taken to truly celebrating the relationship I’m building with myself. I’m finishing tattoo sleeves I’ve only dreamed about. I’m rocking out to Ariana Grande’s new romance-filled album, looking myself dead-on in the mirror.

Miss Freaky Friday and I don’t know each other. I follow her on Instagram and she sold me a pair of jeans at the start of the pandemic. This does not make a friendship. But I do love her relationship for her. They – the infamous they again – tell us that we never know what happens behind closed doors. And we don’t. They’re right about that. Meaning I don’t really know anything about her relationship outside of what she posts on social media. What I believe to be true is that they know each other. Like, deeply know one another.

I spent years trying to be the person I thought the human sitting beside me wanted me to be. And when I wasn’t shapeshifting, I was fully immersed in their emotional crises. Which meant I was abandoning myself, my need’s to care for them.

This brings us back to me, dripping shampoo on my bathroom tile. In the dead of winter. Talking to my emotional entanglement while he was on vacation on some tropical island. Someone said something to upset him and rather than finish my shower like a rational person, I jumped to his rescue. I’m not sure what’s worse, that I didn’t see how I was putting his needs before my own or that I honestly believed he’d do the same for me.

I’ve done quite a bit of work to accept the ways I show up

Astrologically, I’m a cancer. This means I am the equivalent of a golden retriever. Someone, probably a TikTok influencer, said, “stop giving them the girlfriend treatment when you’re not their girlfriend.” This, for me, while groundbreaking, is also a fine line.

I’ve done quite a bit of work to accept the ways I show up as a friend, family member, colleague, and partner, without comparing it to the ways others may or may not show up. And while we know almost no relationship is 50/50 for the better part of its existence, that doesn’t mean 80/20 is acceptable for weeks or months on end.

Have you ever had a real-life moment where you believe you’re the latest episode on MTV’s Punk’d? That was me a few weeks ago. I’m lying in bed, writing as usual, and my bestie calls me, with the most serious tone wrapped around her voice. She accuses me of copying her Insta story the day of the U.S. Presidential Inauguration. After some back and forth, I realized that this isn’t how I choose to treat those I love, and this isn’t how I want to accept being treated by those who claim to love me.

Asking clarifying questions is key to healthy communication. Raising awareness around one’s concerns, fears, anxieties, or hang-ups, is perfectly rational. But meeting someone with, “You just ran over my cat!” energy when no animals were in fact harmed is disrespectful. I believe in the benefit of the doubt, of looking inward prior to exuding accusations.

For so long I was terrified of endings

April is a month filled with grief for me. It holds the anniversary of my mother’s death and her birthday. I’ve clung to moving trains at my own expense in the form of lovers, friends, and careers in the desperation to avoid yet another goodbye. What all my self-inflicted injuries have taught me is to keep my own door wide open with a “Bye Felicia” doormat loud and proud. If you don’t want to stay in my world, thank you so very much for stopping in and best of luck on your future endeavors.

It isn’t that, “everyone leaves me.” It’s that we all orbit in and out of one another’s world because there are very few humans we meet and remain exceptionally close to. But when you find them, you learn to appreciate them that much more. And we can thank the humans we’ve said and received goodbyes with.

Losing the situationship I opened this essay with what was the closest level of grief I’ve come to since losing my mom. I now know that that had nothing to do with him. But rather my coming to terms with how much I can care for someone only to lose them too soon. But that loss doesn’t destroy me.

I do believe a part of me died when my mother did. But what’s left of me has survived more endings than I ever thought possible. I find immense triumph in that. Wherever you are when reading this, I’m going to ask you to stop for a moment. Please, genuinely congratulate yourself for surviving all that you have. I think we all feel as though we’re carrying targets on our back that we never asked for. And this metaphor can get very deep, very quickly. But without digging directly into sexism, racism and stigma I, and so many I love, have experienced, let’s stick with abandonment for right now.

For so long I was terrified of endings. Now, I welcome them with more peace than I ever could’ve imagined. When people show you who they are, believe them. Let me say that louder for those in the back. When people show you who they are, believe them. And when people walk away, let them. You deserve so much more than hanging on to someone who is driving in the opposite direction of everything that’s good for you.

A romance free year: March

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Written by Tori Muzyk

Illustrated by Francesca Mariama